


Good Morning, Kenny McCormick

by polkadotplease



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cute Ending, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28742724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadotplease/pseuds/polkadotplease
Summary: Kenny’s mornings start out dreadful, but they’re worth it to see one special guy.
Relationships: Kenny McCormick/Leopold "Butters" Stotch
Kudos: 25





	Good Morning, Kenny McCormick

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first SP fic! I hope you guys like it :-)

You wake up that morning like you’re getting ready for war. 

Your eyes find their way open, scrutinizing every inch of your room like you did the morning before. Your head nulls itself, seemingly narcotized from last night’s smoke. Playboy bunnies cringe as they lay in carnal poses, lacing your walls and covering holes your parents insist came with the house. Your ceiling holds brown spots of slighted mold, and leaks a rachitic pattern of water, dropping in like an old friend you don’t have the heart to cut loose. 

Bashful blonde hair coated in antiquated orange fluff,  
your parka girdles you like a mother’s hug. One that lacks the reserve a woman’s warmth would typically inspire. Maybe that’s why I sleep in it, you think.

You spring from bed with a decelerated tempo, letting each crack in your lumbar echo around the room. Once you’ve stood up, you make your way into the family bathroom. The only other room you pass is Karens, your sister who you love dearly. You say you’d die a million times for her, but contextually, it doesn’t mean much. As your morning routine completes itself, you spit out minty froth and rinse your mouth, letting the toothpaste pool at the drain as you stare at your lips. Chapped. He wouldn’t like that.

You walk out of the bathroom and flip off the fidgeting light. At the front door, your backpack slumps. Ripped and deflated, you notice. As you pick it up, your body shifts halfway, leaving you just enough leeway to glance back at where you are. Your house is in shambles, your parents are nowhere to be seen, and the only sounds in the entire room are the lulls and lullabies of the broken air conditioner. 

In your most gothic fantasies, you envision yourself running away from your barren home deus ex machina. Leaving behind your family, even Karen, who you still send money to every week, sticky backed to letters reminding her you’re okay. You imagine finding means of survival however you can - you’re a senior now, you’re almost 18. You can live on your own, you can make a living for yourself past City Wok’s confines. You debate committing yourself to egregious acts you’ve entertained yourself to, but never considered taking the role of. You decide not to. Too risky.

Your walk to the bus stop is short, but longer than anyone else’s. The townspeople hate your part of South Park, and they’d fight tooth and nail to keep you out if they could. An inconvenience like this is meager, but they all add up at the end of the day. 

You sit on the bus next to your friend, Kyle. Usually, you’re burdened sitting next to the girthy boy, but today, the Marsh family is on vacation, so you’re in luck. 

The first thing Kyle does is note the stench of day old cigarettes in your hair, a comment that would’ve irked you had it not been you’ve known him long enough to see his note was made out of careful apprehension, not distaste. You tell him it’s your parents again. Your friends, even Cartman, feel concerned when you smoke. They care about you a lot more than you do yourself. You wish you could repay them past supplying vodka for end of year parties, but you can’t.

Buses always arrive at South Park High School minutes before the bell rings, scraping the surface of how shitty little inconveniences can get. You and your friends shuffle to Mr. Garrison’s classroom, barely managing a seat before a late pass was mandated. 

You slump back into your designated seat, far in the back. You’re diagonal from the left side of the front row - perfect. He starts taking attendance, beginning with Black and Broflovski. You can’t help but stare at the attire your neighbors are wearing. Wendy has her iconically violet winter coat on, one that you swear she’s been rebuying in a new size every time she has a growth spurt. Jimmy has a yellow shirt on, clearly just washed. Maybe his mother washed it for him, or possibly even his dad, depending on how far they apportion domestic duties. Token is dressed like a mannequin at the stores Kenny and his friends like to window shop at. You decide to not even give his outfit the time of day.

“Kenny McCormick?”

You mumble that you’re here, remembering you haven’t even stopped to look at the prime object of your affection. The teen that keeps you up at night, bringing the leather clad venereal dolls in your magazines to jealous tears. You don’t even need them anymore. Your thoughts are enough. The teen just a few months younger than you who swells your heart, reminding you that goodness truly can exist in the world. The teen you only speak to in passing, when you “accidentally” bump into him only to hear him apologize while you pick up his books in a feigned suave fashion. The teen you wish you could hold, embrace. The teen who you wish you could run away with to forgotten lands, only responsibilities revolving around the smell of rose buds and the size of each other’s smiles. The teen who makes you wish your dreams could come true.

“Butters?”

“oh -present!”


End file.
